way of the Rhine."

I had not finished, when, lowering her pretty head to scrutinize
my crabbed handwriting, she cried, "It is certainly he, the
américain-flamand! I was certain I could not be mistaken."

"Do you know me then, madame?'

"Do I know you? And you, do you not recognize me?"

"I protest, madame, my memory for faces is shocking; and, though there
are few in the world comparable with yours--"

She interrupted me with a gesture too familiar to be mistaken. A
tumbler was on the desk filled with goose-quills. Taking this up
like a bouquet, and stretching it out at arm's length to an imaginary
passer-by, she sang, with a mischievous professional _brio_, "Fresh
roses to-day, all fresh! White lilacs for the bride, and lilies for
the holy altar! pinks for the button of the young man who thinks
himself handsome. Who buys my bluets, my paquerettes, my marguerites,
my penseés?"

It was strangely like something I well knew, yet my mind, confused
with the baggage of unexpected travel, refused to throw a clear light
over this fascinating rencounter.

The little landlady threw her head back to laugh, and I saw a small
rose-colored tongue surrounded with two strings of pearls: "Very well,
Monsieur Flemming! Have you forgotten the two chickens?"